


(you don't want to be in) the room where it happens

by sparxwrites



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Sexual Assault, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The evening is late, and Burr’s candle has burned down nearly to a stub when the knock at the door comes. Burr misses it at first, as tired and as absorbed in his current essay as he is, paper stacked around him and several screwed-up balls of wasted sheets scattered on the floor – but when the polite <i>rap-rap-rap</i> turns into an insistent, thumping hammering, he eventually hauls himself out of his seat and to the front door, aggravation rising.</p><p>When he opens the door and comes face to face with Hamilton, he wishes he could say he’s surprised. He’s really not, though.</p><p>(In which Hamilton turns up on Burr's doorstep in the middle of the night, soaking wet and drunk and unusually reluctant to talk, after the dinner with Jefferson and Madison.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (so my life took a really weird turn at some point, and now i’m writing h/c involving the founding fathers? go figure. basically i heard “the room where it happens” and got some really dodgy undertones from some of the lyrics. so here’s something based on that. i’d like to apologise to god and also lmm. and hamilton, for dumping this on top of all the other shit he has to deal with.)
> 
> [[Link to @sassytail's art for this chapter](http://sassytail.tumblr.com/post/138564487582/i-really-wanted-to-draw-this-bit-from)]

The evening is late, and Burr’s candle has burned down nearly to a stub when the knock at the door comes. Burr misses it at first, as tired and as absorbed in his current essay as he is, paper stacked around him and several screwed-up balls of wasted sheets scattered on the floor – but when the polite _rap-rap-rap_ turns into an insistent, thumping hammering, he eventually hauls himself out of his seat and to the front door, aggravation rising.

When he opens the door and comes face to face with Hamilton, he wishes he could say he’s surprised. He’s really not, though.

“Hamilton,” he acknowledges, with a half-quirk up of his lips and an incline of his head, doing his best to bear down on the irritation coursing through his veins and the bitterness from earlier trying to rise up in his throat. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Another late-night consultation regarding some political scheme of yours?”

Before Burr can stop him, Hamilton pushes his way into the house, stumbling. “Hah- no,” he says, as Burr closes the door somewhat reluctantly behind him. He’s mildly damp from the drizzle, clothes and hair beaded with water, and, when he speaks, his words slur. “A more- more of a social. Social visit this time.”

Burr wrinkles his nose at the unevenness of Hamilton’s steps, at the strong smell of liquor rising from him. “Are… are you _drunk_ , Hamilton?” he asks, a note of derision in his voice as he moves to stand in front of his friend, taking in his disarray, from his rumpled clothes to his mussed hair to the tavern stench that seems to have followed him from wherever he’s been drinking. “ _Really_?”

“If you’re- looking for political _scheming_ ,” continues Hamilton, ignoring his words entirely, still swaying, oddly glassy-eyed, “of- of a sorts. I suppose. Then i’m afraid that all- all happened earlier. With- with Jefferson. And Madison.”

The _dinner_ , remembers Burr, all at once, and the bitterness flaring full force along with a hungry, nosy curiosity in spite of himself. “What happened?” he demands, resisting the urge to grab Hamilton by the shoulders. If Hamilton is here, after that, in this state… well. It either bodes very well, or very ill, and he seems too melancholy and out of sorts for it to bode well.

Hamilton’s lips twitch, flitting between happiness and distress and something unreadable. “I- we get the banks. The system we- I wanted, we get- And they get the capital.” He sighs, scrubs a palm over his face, eyes falling shut for a long moment. It’s wrong, all wrong – he should look joyful, triumphant that he’s won, but instead he looks like he’s _lost_. In more ways than one. “It’s all agreed. They pledged their votes.”

“The capital- it doesn’t matter, if we’ve got the banks,” breathes Burr, eyes wide in grudging appreciation of Hamilton’s silver tongue and genius. “You got _far_ more than you gave, and they didn’t even notice,” he marvels. “You sly dog.”

Hamilton, to his surprise, shakes his head at that. “No,” he says, firmly, swallowing hard. “I- I wanted what I got-” He chokes on something that might be a laugh, dark and surprisingly bitter. “-but I feel it’s a- a fair exchange. What I gave.”

“But what _happened_?” presses Burr, insistently, hungry for _details_ , hungry enough to look past Hamilton’s strange behaviour – strange even for someone who’s evidently had a fair amount of strong liquor in a short space of time, from his stumbling and slurring and the heavy reek of alcohol coming off his breath.

Hamilton shakes his head, rubs at his face again, hands clumsy with the drink. For perhaps the first time in his life, he’s silent when Burr wants him talking, and Burr can’t help but feel that the contrary prick is doing it _deliberately_ , just to annoy him.

Resisting the urge to hiss his frustration, Burr’s fingers curl into fists at his side, the jealousy like a viper curled tight around his internal organs and slithering up his throat. The bitterness is almost choking. “God damnit, Alexander, I just want to- No. I _need_ to-”

“-know what happened. In- in the room,” finishes Hamilton, nodding – swaying badly when the room spins around him at the motion, dizzying. There’s enough _wrongness_ in his voice that even Burr hears it. “With all due- due respect. You- you really _don’t_ , sir.”

Burr catches his shoulder in one hand and forearm in the other, steadying him, the bitterness in his expression slowly draining off into something closer to concern. “Alexander?” he asks, quietly, when Hamilton sways into him at the touch, near-collapsing against him and burying his face in Burr’s shoulder. “What _happened_ in there?”

“I took your advice.” Hamilton’s words are muffled by Burr’s shirt, but clear enough despite the slur, despite the way his voice shakes. “ _Talk less_.”

“Smile more?” finishes Burr, something like amusement in his voice. It disappears in a flash when Hamilton twitches in his arms, and then again – and Burr realises, abruptly, that Hamilton is sobbing, shoulders trembling in silence as the tears soak into his shirt slow and damp. “ _Alexander_ -! My God, man-”

He pauses, forces himself to take a deep breath. His hands detach themselves from Hamilton without his permission, one arm wrapping itself around Hamilton’s shoulders and his free hand coming up to cup the back off Hamilton’s head. “…Why did you come here tonight, Alexander?” he asks, gently.

It takes several moments for Hamilton to find the breath for words. “I- I could- couldn’t bear to go home,” he mumbles, arms curling around Burr and grasping at his shirt, white-knuckled and desperate. “I can’t- please, Burr, sir-”

Sighing, Burr makes a decision, with Hamilton drunk and crying in his arms and the streets outside dark and damp with drizzle. “Stay here, for tonight, you fool,” he says gently. “Come now, you’re hysterical with drink. Let’s get you up the stairs and into a bed.”

When the words fail to rouse Hamilton to movement, leave him still clinging to Burr and crying quietly enough Burr can’t help but wonder if he’s expecting a reprimand for it, Burr sighs. Sparing a thought for his back, he crouches a little, freeing his hand from Hamilton’s hair to hook an arm under the other man’s knees. When he straightens, he’s cradling Hamilton close to his chest, an arm around his back and another around his legs. Hamilton’s face is still pressed firmly against his shoulder, the cloth there now soaked through.

Hamilton makes a fairly pathetic picture like this, curled up against Burr’s chest like a newborn and crying like one to boot. Despite that, Burr bites down on the teasing comments crowding on the tip of his tongue – and the less teasing ones sticking dark in his throat, the remains of jealousy and bitterness and simmering in the pit of his stomach. No matter how drunk Hamilton is, Burr has never seen him like this, never seen him in such a state over _anything_ , let alone mere drink.

Not even Laurens’ death had driven Hamilton to this. Or, at least, not to this in front of _him_.

Getting Hamilton up the stairs in a bridal style carry is… something of an adventure, but Burr manages without dropping his cargo or wrenching his back, which he counts as a victory. His feet carry him to his own bedroom on autopilot, and when he tries to set Hamilton down on the sheets, Hamilton refuses to let go.

They both tumble onto the bed together, sprawled next to one another, Burr breathing hard from the exertion. “Damn,” he murmurs in mild frustration, trying to extract himself from Hamilton’s grip and then from the bed. He manages to untangle himself from Hamilton’s clutches – but, when he tries to rise, Hamilton’s fingers plucking at his sleeve stops him in his tracks.

Reluctantly, he lies back down, next to his damp, drunk friend, his weeping only now slowing even slightly. “What to do with you…” he says, almost fondly, one hand finding Hamilton’s hair almost on instinct. “You are _intractable_ , I’m sure I’ve told you before.”

“You can’t tell anyone,” murmurs Hamilton. His eyes are closed, but red and puffy nonetheless, breathing still hitching every other inhale. “You- Burr, please, my friend- Not a word can escape this room.”

“You haven’t _told_ me anything,” says Burr, frustrated – though his voice is soft, as soft as the fingers he’s carding through Hamilton’s hair. “Alexander, _please_ \- I’ve never seen you like this. So distressed. _Talk_ to me, for God’s sake, use that silver tongue of yours and-”

He halts when the words wring another, quiet sob out of Hamilton, but no explanation.

An ugly picture starts to paint itself in front of Burr’s eyes and he curses himself for not seeing it sooner. It’s an effort to stop his hands from curling into fists, but he suspects that that would only exacerbate the situation right now. Instead, he forces himself to stay gentle, to keep his fingers moving through Hamilton’s hair slow and comforting, and tries not to jump to conclusions.

He manages the first, but fails spectacularly at the second. “ _Why_?” The word strangles tight in his throat as he struggles to process this, to articulate any of the thousand things running through his mind right now.

Hamilton shrugs, listlessly, turns onto his side and curls into Burr’s chest until his face is hidden – until Burr can feel the way he’s shaking like he’s got a bad case of the chills, like he can’t help himself. “…Washington knew about the dinner,” he admits, his usually strident voice almost agonisingly small. “There was… presidential pressure. To deliver.” He draws in a shuddering breath, and Burr can feel the flutter of eyelashes against his collarbone as Hamilton squeezes his eyes shut. “I did what it took to get my plan on the Congress floor.”

“You and your plans, your eagerness, your _principles_ …” sighs Burr, his arms tightening ever so slightly around Hamilton’s small, curled frame. “Your refusal to back down will be the death of you, one day, I swear.”

“If you stand for something,” says Hamilton quietly, his breath warm against Burr’s throat, his trembling slowing gradually with every beat of Burr’s heart against his shoulder, “you- you must be prepared to _fall_ for it, too.”

“But like _this_?” Burr can’t keep the frustration, the _grief_ , out his voice. It’s not anger at Hamilton, not even anger at Jefferson or Madison – though Lord help him, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do next time he sees the pair of them, his usual counsel of caution be _damned_ – but anger at the injustice of it. That, of all people to bear the brunt of the nastier side of congress’s politicking, it was bright, idealistic _Hamilton_ that had to be the one to shoulder the burden. “ _Alexander_ , for the love of God, my _friend_ \- like _this_?”

Hamilton, for once, has no clever words in response. The fingers at Burr’s hip twitch, clench a little more firmly at the fabric, and that is it. Only silence and stillness, the muffled noise of Hamilton’s drunk-heavy breathing slowing and steadying as he slips into an uneasy sleep, a tight curl against Burr’s chest.

It takes a long, _long_ time for Burr to follow him down, eyes wide open as the rising sun shines through the cracks in the curtain, hands still tangled warm and gentle in the length of Hamilton’s hair.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( **tw** for dubcon - there's no explicit sex, but there is heavily coerced 'consent', and sexual situations heavily implied to end in sex. please be careful if that sort of thing upsets you.)
> 
> [[Link to @sassytail's art for this chapter](http://sassytail.tumblr.com/post/138564763192/have-another-art-based-slightly-more-loosely-on)]

“So,” says Hamilton, bright eyed and flushed with passion, chest heaving with the speed of his words. He’s on fire, flying – carried high on the wings of whatever strange, manic energy it is that possesses him when he speaks like this, with a silver tongue and a heart of gold. “What do you say to my proposition? Do we have an understanding?”

There’s silence, for a moment, and then comes the laughter. Hamilton’s face falls, shutters, as first Madison and then Jefferson voice their amusement at his naive enthusiasm. “I don’t understand-” he starts, stops when Jefferson practically cackles with laughter, his words choking in his throat. “I thought-”

"Did you really think it would be that easy to win our votes, _boy_?" Madison scoffs, shaking his head. There’s a thoughtful look in his eye, though, consideration – Hamilton’s words are undeniably a temptation, and Hamilton himself even more so. He seems to _glow_ like this, alight with the fire of his own passion. Jefferson sees it too, he knows, by the way his gaze rakes Hamilton head to toe.

"I must admit,” muses Jefferson, low and slow and easy as his eyes burn with something dark and sleazy, “your proposition is tempting, but i could do with some- _convincing_." His eyes flicker sideways to lock with Madison’s, and they share a look, a smirk.

"Another kind of _propositioning_ , if you will…" says Madison, thoughtfully, his lips curling up at the corners in a way Hamilton doesn’t feel entirely comfortable with. The two of them sat there on their chairs, easy and lounging like apex predators, watching him, _judging_ him – and then that smile…

Hamilton's eyes widen as their words sink in, as the implication hits him, and Jefferson can’t help but almost cackle at the shock on his face. "Oh look!” he crows, grinning. “Now he gets it. The boy _gets_ it."

“...You can’t be serious,” murmurs Hamilton, pale with disbelief, eyes darting nervously between the two of them. They’re a united front of power and ease, they hold all the cards and they know it – his job’s on the line here, his _life’s_ on the line, everything he’s worked to achieve. This could be his legacy, and they dangle it before him like a carrot on a stick to get him on his knees.

If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t believe- but this is Jefferson and Madison, with their hungry eyes and their oily sleaze. He can believe. He just doesn’t _want_ to.

Jefferson drums fingers against the arm of his chair, grinning when Hamilton’s eyes snap to them, locked onto the movement and sound with all the skittishness of prey. “What was it you said to me, that day on Washington’s doorstep?” he asks, voice pleasant but words mocking. “You _begged_ me to join the fray. So I did.” He gestures expansively. “I’m sure you can get down on your knees once more? For your _grand plan_.” His grin widens, all teeth and cruelty. “Come on, _boy_ – take it like a man.”

Swallowing hard, Hamilton licks his lips, breath hitching. They _can’t_ be serious, they’ve _got_ to be bluffing-

"Well then, what are you waiting for?" asks Madison, one eyebrow arched. His knees shift, parting, and Hamilton doesn’t miss the significance of the gesture.  
"Do you love this great country of ours enough to get on your _knees_ for her?" adds Jefferson. The spread of his legs is blatant more blatant than Madison’s, one arm tossed over the back of his chair and entire posture easy with power.

In the face of these two men, wide and brash and grinning, he feels caught in the spotlight – breathless and useless and suddenly out of choices, and he’s never felt so _helpless_.

_Figure it out, Alexander_ , says Washington, somewhere behind his left shoulder. The weight of presidential pressure is crushing, almost enough to curve the spine he’s held so insistently ram-rod straight throughout this entire ordeal. _That’s an order, from your commander._

_Talk less_ , says Burr from somewhere to his right, so _casually_ , as if that were something easy to achieve – as if words didn’t fill up his chest until he thought he might choke on them, as if they didn’t crowd his throat and spill out his mouth, as if they didn’t _scream_ inside his head. _Smile more._

And finally, his own words ringing in his own skull, so stupid in hindsight, so damning. _Do whatever it takes to get my plan on the congress floor_. There are no words left, no voices left, no _choices_ left, and he knows what he has to do. He just prays to God he has the courage to do it.

“Whatever it takes,” he whispers, his words lost under Jefferson’s taunts and Madison’s laughter.

The heckling silences in an instant as Hamilton’s knees begin to bend – and then he drops with a crack like a gunshot, bone against hard wood, to the floor.

“My god,” says Jefferson, with something that would be approaching awe if he didn’t sound so damn _derisive_ and delighted. Madison’s eyes are wide with surprise, but Jefferson’s are narrowed, hungry and predatory. “The little whore’s only gone and done it.”

“Do you swear to hold up your end of the bargain?” Hamilton demands, hands curled into fists on his knees and shoulders tight. He’s doing this, _he’s doing_ _this_ , and the knowledge rings in his head even as he fights to keep his breathing even. It’s dizzying, for all the wrong reasons, and for once in his life it’s a struggle to keep his thoughts straight long enough to string a sentence together. “If I do this – do I have your votes?”

“Look, _boy_ -” starts Madison, amused by his impudence, the mouth on him even on his knees.

“ _Do you swear it_?!” He must to know, _has_ to know. If he’s going to risk it all for this, _give_ it all for this, then he has to be sure.

“Yes!” cries Jefferson.

The world stops again. Hamilton’s head spins, heart racing worse than it ever has before a duel. This is it, the moment, the minute where the world balances on a pinhead and everything changes. “God help and forgive me,” he whispers, “I just- want to build something that’s going to outlive me.” Eyes to the sky and heart in his mouth, he makes his choice – as if it was ever his choice to make.

When time resumes, he’s settled into the role, grinning, easy and laconic, knees spread and lips parted and, oh, those _eyes_. “…Then come and get it.”

Jefferson watches intently, silent for now, and Hamilton’s aware of the weight of attention on him as he tilts his chin to the ceiling and bares his throat. Both of them inhale sharply at the gesture – but where Jefferson leans forward, all impatient excitement, Madison leans back into his chair, the very picture of power with the self confident way he fills the space. “Come a little closer, pet,” he mocks, hand outstretched, as if Hamilton were a dog in need of tempting.

Hamilton swallows, watches Jefferson’s eyes track the bob of his throat, tries to tell himself this is nothing new – he’s used to solving problems with his quicksilver tongue. What does it matter, what _should_ it matter, whether it’s words or a cock filling his mouth?

The crawling is humiliating, but it’s what they want, and right now they need placating. So he does it, hands and knees across the hard wooden floor, his cheeks burning, his pride smarting. But he does it.

Madison reaches for him before Jefferson can, slaps Jefferson’s hand away and ignores the wounded look his fellow party member throws him. “You’ll have your turn,” he promises, as his hand closes around Hamilton’s cravat and tugs until he has no choice but to keep crawling forward, settle himself between Madison’s parted knees. “Don’t be greedy. I trust you don’t mind if I take first taste?”

“Oh, by all means,” says Jefferson, with a smirk and a baring of teeth. “Ladies first, after all.”

The look Madison throws him is _withering_ , but he’s quickly distracted again by the man between his legs. He’d look stunned, if his eyes weren’t so cruel, if his smile didn’t widen when fear flashes across Hamilton’s face at the experimental touch of Madison’s hand to his cheek. Jefferson laughs at that, and Hamilton flushes, hot and red and humiliated – though he prides himself on the fact that he doesn’t flinch.

It’s the same as talking, he tells himself, as those hands wrap experimentally around his throat and tighten, just a little, until his breathing hitches in his chest. The same, as two fingers trace the bow of his top lip, the curve of his bottom. The _same_ , as one hand finds its way to fist in his hair and the other touches flat-palmed against Madison’s stomach and slides down, _down_ …

But as Jefferson pries his jaw open with sharp nails and too much pressure to his lips and cheeks, and Madison pushes fingers into his mouth to pin his tongue down and silence him, he can’t help but think speaking is a very different matter. Like this, he can’t defend himself. Like this, he’s helpless, _helpless_ , and as the fingers push deeper, and Jefferson’s nails bite down harder-

He wakes gasping, in a cold sweat and an unfamiliar bed, with panic coiling tight in his chest. There’s an arm over his waist, a hand in his hair, and for a minute the panic cinches tighter – Madison? _Jefferson_? Which one of them found him and dragged him home with them – before his eyes find the person lying next to him.

_Burr_. The previous night comes back to him in a drunken haze, a blur of misery and alcohol and rain before he’d found himself in Burr’s house, and then Burr’s _arms_ , and… and finally Burr’s bed, though he can hardly think the phrase without his stomach clenching and rolling.

It hadn’t been like that, though, he tells himself firmly. Burr had been nothing but gentlemanly, if his memories are to be believed – more than gentlemanly. He remembers arms around him as he’d cried, as quietly as he could, remembers a hand stroking his hair as he’d rambled half-drunkenly about standing and falling and making his choices.

He remembers Burr being _gentle_.

That, more than anything, is what makes him move, despite his pounding head and his aching heart and his-

When touches fingers to his throat, he feels the tender pain of bruises even through his cravat, and fights the urge to cry. He’s not some child, some weakling in need of saving, some maiden in need of defending. He made his choices, and now he must live with the consequences – and the marks, too, for as long as they take to fade.

Slipping out of the bed is harder than anticipated, with Burr next to him and an arm across him. The mattress dips and shifts with his every movement, and his heart stutters every time Burr’s breathing catches. He manages it, though, edging out from the other man’s grasp and easing his way off the mattress, head spinning with the aftermath of too much drink and too many tears, to stand at the edge of the bed.

“My apologies, Burr,” he whispers, to the figure on the bed, allowing himself a moment before he turns and pads out of the room on quiet feet, “for my momentary lapse in judgement.” Burr doesn’t stir, lays still and silent and sleeping, and Hamilton doesn’t try to wake him. He heads down the stairs, and lets himself out, without another word.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (no new warnings for this, i just wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who's left a comment on this! i am absolutely _amazed_ at your enthusiasm and how _much_ some of you have to say, and it's incredibly lovely, so thank you.  <3 also, @sassytail's done some awesome art for the first two chapters - and i think might be doing one for each chapter from now on :3c - so go and check that out!)

“My apologies, Mr. Burr, sir, for my momentary lapse in judgement.” Those are the exact words Hamilton uses when, three days later, he finally finds the courage to face Burr again. He knocks on Burr’s door, three determined raps of his knuckles, hoists a flat, businesslike smile onto his face, and braces himself as the door begins to open.

For a long moment, Burr simply stares at him. He looks tired, confused, and _deeply_ unamused. He hasn’t slept right since Hamilton’s visit, distracted and disillusioned and – though he hates to admit it – _concerned_. Hamilton had been in such a state that night, drunk and in distress and disarray, only to disappear when the morning came. And then hiding from him for three days, after that… Burr’s used to Hamilton sulking, but this? This is something different.

He says none of that, though, takes his own advice and talks less, holds the words silent inside his chest. Instead, he says, “ _Alexander_ ,” with one eyebrow raised. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I was under the impression you were avoiding me.”

The heavy disapproval in his tone is enough to make Hamilton cringe. “I came to apologise for-” he manages, before Burr sighs, cuts him off with a raised hand and a _look_.

“No, Alexander,” he says, a note of strain to his words. “Why are you _here_?” He certainly hasn’t come to apologise, Burr knows that much. Hamilton doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t look back, and he _certainly_ doesn’t apologise. This is an anomaly, an aberration, and as much as Burr suspects he knows why Hamilton’s here, he wants to hear the man say it himself.

“I just- I just wanted to say-” Hamilton’s carefully prepared words desert him under the weight of Burr’s gaze, and he fumbles, stumbles, tripping over his own tongue. It’s a novel experience, and one he doesn’t care much for. “I- Mr. Burr, sir, whatever you think you heard- or understood – last night, that is- or rather, when I visited you last-

He doesn’t correct himself fast enough for Burr to miss that Hamilton hasn’t slept since they shared a bed. It’s not unsurprising, but it _is_ frustrating, and he resists the urge to grind his teeth – even without the slip of the tongue, Hamilton’s rambling, words tripping over themselves as they come off his tongue, but without the slur of a drunk. It’s more than obvious he’s in dire need of a rest. “ _Yes_?”

“That whatever you understood to have happened to me, sir, you are… mistaken. I drank too much last night, and my tongue was loose, and I- I said things I should not have. Or rather, that is- in error.” Hamilton feels, suddenly, very young again – talking to Burr for the first time, with a nervous _Aaron Burr, sir,_ as he gazes up at this man so much taller than him, so much more accomplished than him.

Burr has always managed to make him feel so _small_ , and today is no exception.

The waver and quaver of Hamilton’s tone is by no means convincing, and Burr arches an eyebrow in disbelief. “You mean to tell me that Jefferson and Madison did _not_ coerce you into sex by threatening your job and your livelihood?”

He regrets the words as soon as they’ve left his mouth, callous and careless – but they’re out there now, hanging heavy and too-loud in the space between them both. He watches the colour drain from Hamilton’s face, the grey pallor that replaces it, the way he grabs for the doorframe to stay upright when his knees threaten to buckle.

“Yes,” says Hamilton, but the word comes out thin, thready, entirely unconvincing. “I- as I said, before – decisions were happening over dinner. And so they did.” He has one hand raised to his mouth, scrubbing over his lips with a single-minded intensity bordering on compulsive. Burr doesn’t think he realises he’s doing it.

Sighing, Burr tries to gentle himself. It’s not something that comes naturally to him, or easily – but for Hamilton, like this, he will try. By _God_ will he try. He seemed to manage well enough that night, after all, with Hamilton small and sobbing in his arms, a warm bundle of clothes and skin and trembling. “Alexander-”

“I said yes!” The words burst from Hamilton in a cry, low and wounded and ripped from somewhere between his ribs, like the last flutter of a dying bird. There’s shame in his eyes, guilt written all over his face – he’s staring at the floor, but Burr doesn’t need to meet his gaze to know it’s there. “I said yes, Burr, and they- I took what they gave, and I got… I got what I wanted.” The words come out more a sob than anything else. “I _said yes_.”

“Alexander,” says Burr, almost gently, taking a step forward. When he touches Hamilton’s arm, the man flinches, but doesn’t pull away – doesn’t _push_ him away, either. “If they threatened you, that yes was not yours to give. Not freely. They were cruel and callous and _wrong_ , and they will pay for what they’ve done, I swear it.”

There’s fierceness in his words he didn’t know he was capable of, something angry and outraged that someone, _anyone_ , has managed to make Hamilton so _small_. The man’s hardly tall, by any measure, but he has this _energy_ that extends beyond his frame, a fire and passion that’s overwhelming. It makes him seem far bigger than he is, sometimes, an infinity compressed under his skin.

Hunched over and near-trembling, with greasy hair and bruised, dead eyes, he has none of that fire and passion now. It breaks Burr’s heart just a little.

Expression flits across the blank page of Hamilton’s usually animated face, unreadable. He settles for small, thin smile, eyes dark and creased at the corners from the strain, the lack of sleep. “Why, Burr, sir,” he says, a tired sort of mischief in his tone despite the slump of his shoulders. “You haven’t finally found something you’re willing to _stand_ for, have you?”

“Well, you seem willing to do enough falling for the both of us,” says Burr dryly, and then winces when Hamilton flinches. “I didn’t- my apologies. I simply meant…” He sighs, shaking his head. “It’s more a case of what I _won’t_ stand for, Alexander, and I _will not_ stand for-”

Hamilton’s eyes shutter abruptly, his humor gone. “Oh, _you_ won’t stand for it?” he snaps, and _there’s_ the fire back, but it’s _wrong_ – not passion, but all the fight of a cornered, feral animal in his words. “A good thing you’ve never stood for anything in your _life_ , then-”

“You deliberately twist my words!” Burr pulls away from him to slam a palm against the wall in helpless frustration, heedless of the way Hamilton flinches at the action and the violence of it. “Hamilton, good _God_. Is it such a stretch for you to believe that, despite our differences, I am concerned for your health? For your wellbeing? And that I am also concerned about the precedent this sets for the future of our _government_?!”

Hamilton’s eyes widen, and his face greys yet again, and that’s all it takes for Burr to realise he’s made another mistake. “I didn’t think- stupid of me- so stupid, _useless_ ,” he mutters, and Burr refuses to listen to this, refuses to let Hamilton tear himself apart over Madison and Jefferson’s scheming manipulations.

“I do not- I do not place the blame on you,” says Burr, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. As usual, talking to Hamilton has driven him to headache and frustration. “Please, Alexander, do not misunderstand me. You seem _intent_ on making me a villain.”

When Hamilton doesn’t respond, just continues to card fingers through his own hair and tug on it, staring at nothing and muttering, Burr grabs his wrists. “Hamilton!” he barks, the word sharp enough to cut through the other man’s reverie. He comes back to earth as if surfacing from a dream, blinking and pale and almost trembling. “Hamilton, _please_.”

Hamilton swallows, hard. “My apologies,” he says, lowering his arms, Burr’s hands still wrapped warm and firm around his wrists. “I- forgot myself.”

Talking to Hamilton like this, is like dealing with an injured cat – wild one moment, and whimpering the next, swinging between helpless pain and a desperate, fearful _anger_. Burr’s never been good at handling injured things.

“What I am trying to say,” he continues, low and not quite urgent but something close, “is that Jefferson and Madison have committed a crime, and- and-” He sighs, drags a hand over the curve of his head in frustration. “-and they must answer for it,” he finishes, lamely. “You _have_ to tell someone.”

“I told _you_ ,” says Hamilton, a familiar note of sulky petulance in his voice mixed with something new – something strange and reticent and almost _nervous_. “I- _I_ _told you_.”

I meant tell someone who can _do_ something, Burr thinks but does not say. Someone with a push, with drive, with something other than my careful apathy – because he is well aware that cautiousness and prudence do not suit this situation, that sitting and seeing where things land is not _appropriate_ , but he doesn’t know how to do anything _else_.

“Have you told Eliza?” he asks, and realises it was the wrong thing to say when Hamilton’s shoulders stiffen, spine straightening and face going blank. “Alexander-”

“She’d never forgive me.” He won’t meet Burr’s eyes, instead staring at a point somewhere over his left shoulder. At his sides, his hands are curled into fists to stop them twitching, shaking. “She’d never- I couldn’t do that to her.”

Burr sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “Alexander, you _must_ ,” he says, exasperated. “What’s done is done, already in the past, but Eliza is your _wife_! She deserves to know. You _have_ to-”

Hamilton bristles, offended. If he had fur, Burr thinks, it would be standing on end. “Oh, I _must_?” he snaps, but it’s fear, not anger, that Burr hears in his voice. “I don’t remember her being _your_ wife, Burr. I don’t remember being your _husband_.” He shakes his head as if to clear it, stares at the floor rather than meet Burr’s eyes. “You’ve no right to tell me what I _must_ do.”

“For the love of God, Hamilton! You’ve been-” Hamilton flinches at the word, unsaid though it is, and Burr forces himself to silence as he takes a deep breath to collect his thoughts. “It was hardly consensual,” he finishes, a clumsy workaround, worth it for the way the tension eases somewhat from Hamilton’s shoulders. “Your job was on the line- your _life_ was on the line. Eliza’s a good woman. She’ll understand.”

“I-” Hamilton exhales slowly – for once, lost for words, and Burr never thought seeing him speechless would _hurt_ this much, seeing him biting his own tongue to keep whatever’s waiting to spill out of his mouth inside him. “…I have said all I came here to say,” he says eventually, heavily, eyes on the floor, “and much more, besides. Thank you, Mr. Burr, sir, for your time.”

“Hamilton-” starts Burr, but he’s already out the door, coat tails whipping out of sight, practically _fleeing_. He’s always been flighty, restless, constantly moving and using and _taking_ , but _this_ \- this is something else. This isn’t restless energy, this is _running_ , and Burr intends to put a stop to it.

...Well. Intends to put a stop to it, that is, just as soon as he works out _how_.

 


End file.
